The Store-Bought Doll
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "That doll was so real to her, and in a way, she identified with it." An examination of Valjean and Cosette's relationship over the years, featuring Cosette's dolls.


In the 2012 movie, Cosette makes sure to take her rag-doll with her when she leaves the Thénardiers, and if you look closely, she's still holding it when Valjean gives her the new store-bought doll. I wondered whether she kept it, or whether she got rid of it now that she had a real doll, and so I wrote this story to find out.

Inspired by _The Store-Bought Doll,_ by Lois Meyer – the first book I ever remember reading.

(For my own reference: 73rd fanfiction, 13th story for_ Les Miserables_.)

* * *

For as long as she could remember, Cosette had never had one thing in the world to call her own. The Thénardiers barely gave her enough to eat, much less any toys. But Eponine had a fine doll with a porcelain face, and it made Cosette's heart burn with jealousy to watch her playing with it on the floor in front of fire every evening, while Cosette had to clear the table and wash the dishes.

One day, as she was hauling a heavy, stinky back of garbage to the incinerator in the dank alley behind the inn, something white on the ground caught her eye. Cosette stopped and carefully picked it out of the mud. It was an old tunic, faded and torn and soaked through on one sleeve with spilt beer – she could tell because it smelt just like Monsieur Thénardier's breath – but still mostly good. Cosette folded it and hid it away inside her shawl, then continued on her way, trudging barefoot through the mud to the incinerator.

Later, the first moment that she had alone in the kitchen, she took the shirt out again and picked up the butcher knife that she used when Madame Thénardier made her cook dinner. That was her most hated chore; she was always hungry, and preparing food for others made her even more so. The butcher knife was much too big for a young girl to handle, and Cosette was scared that she would cut off her fingers. She was especially careful as she cut the cleaner parts of the shirt into strips, until she had enough to tie and twist together into a small, doll-like shape.

It was a sad excuse for a doll – a dirty, limp body that smelt of alcohol and trash – but Cosette named her new doll Christine, the most beautiful name she could think of, and she loved her dearly. It wasn't Christine's fault that she was only a bundle of rags. There were no ears on her blank head, but when Cosette whispered secrets to her about how much she hated the Thénardiers, she felt sure that Christine listened. There was no mouth on her featureless face, but when Cosette cried after Madame Thénardier struck her or screamed at her, she imagined Christine saying soothingly, "There, there, Cosette, don't cry. I love you."

Best of all, Christine was small enough to fit into Cosette's apron pocket, so she could carry her around all the time. She kept her in her pocket during the day, and every night, she took Christine to bed with her. She curled up on her small, bare, dirty pallet in the chilliest corner of the parlor, and feel asleep with Christine tucked close under her arm. Her life was still miserable, but now that she had Christine, Cosette didn't feel quite so alone and unloved anymore.

* * *

Christine was the first thing that she'd ever had to call her own. The second thing was another doll – a real, beautiful, store-bought doll – that the nice new man gave her. Cosette was still holding Christine in the crook of her elbow when he presented it to her. He had her close her eyes, and when she opened them, her jaw dropped. She had never seen such a beautiful doll before. Its face was smooth, perfect china with pink blush painted on both cheeks. Its dress was blue silk with white lace trim and a row of tiny pearl buttons. Its eyes opened and closed and even had real eyelashes.

For a long moment, she could only stare at it in speechless amazement. Then, as if afraid that she might wake up from this wonderful dream at any moment, she reached out and brushed her fingertips along the hem of the doll's dress.

"She's for you," the man called _papa_ said softly.

"She's so pretty," Cosette breathed, her voice almost a whisper. "I never had a real store-bought doll before. Oh, thank you." Such a beautiful doll deserved a beautiful name, but Cosette couldn't give it the most beautiful name that she knew, because Christine already had that. And Cosette already understood, somehow, that she could never love this new doll as much as she loved her old one. After all, Christine had been there for her when no one else was.

"I'll call her... Catherine," she said, carefully taking the doll. Cosette hadn't learned her letters at all, but she knew that Catherine, Christine, and her own name all started with the same sound. She wanted them to match.

The doll was large, but Cosette held her carefully with one hand, and with her free hand, she shifted Christine from her elbow to her palm, and she held them face-to-face. "Christine," she said to the bundle of rags, which looked smaller and shabbier than ever next to this grand new doll, "this is your sister, Catherine. You two are going to be best friends."

* * *

Cosette was very happy in Paris. She loved her new life, her new doll, and most of all, she loved her papa. He was so sweet to her and didn't make her do any work at all, which felt like a miracle to Cosette. They had lessons in the morning – he was teaching her how to read – but after that, she had all day to play.

On sunny days, or whenever Cosette was happy and carefree, she would play with Catherine for a long time. She brushed the doll's silky yellow hair. She unbuttoned all the pearl buttons on its dress, then she buttoned them back up again. She rocked the doll in her arms and watched its eyes open and close. Often she played with both of her dolls together, too. She had make-believe tea parties on the rug in front of the fire with them, using walnut shells as cups. Valjean sometimes thought of how strange those two dolls looked sitting side-by-side – one of them a bundle of rags, the other with a china face and silk dress. But Cosette saw nothing strange in it, so Valjean just smiled.

But on dark nights, or whenever Cosette was upset or frightened by something, she wanted only Christine. When she needed comfort from her papa, she often asked for it through her doll. _Papa, Christine can't sleep. Will you read to us? Papa, Christine is scared of the dark. Will you light a candle for us? Papa, Christine wants to sit on your lap – may we?_ Every night, she put her beautiful store-bought doll on a shelf, and then she climbed into bed with Christine. Valjean tucked her in, and after he kissed her goodnight, she always held up her doll and said, "Christine wants a kiss too, Papa." Valjean felt a bit silly, but he kissed it too, and Cosette fell asleep with Christine tucked close under one arm.

The first night that he kissed the doll was when Valjean realized how badly it smelt of trash and alcohol. He couldn't possibly ask Cosette to give it up – the doll was so real to her, and in a way, she identified with it – so he must find a way to get the smell out. It looked too fragile to stand up to scrubbing, but perhaps if he soaked it without scrubbing it...

That evening, while Cosette slept, he went out and bought a small bottle of lavender-scented toilet-water. The next day, he mixed it with water in a bowl and told Cosette that they were going to give Christine a bath. She looked reluctant, and Valjean said, "Come, Cosette, you felt better after _you_ had a bath, didn't you?"

Cosette tilted her head, considering. Her papa bathed her every evening in the big washtub. The first time that he'd given her a bath, he'd scrubbed her all over, washed and combed her hair, and picked the fleas off her. It had taken him a long time to get her clean, but she _had_ felt better afterwards. So she said to her doll, "It's all right, Christine. It's just a bath, and after, you won't feel itchy anymore."

They kept the doll soaking in the bowl for most of the day, then set it on a sunny windowsill to dry. When it had dried, Cosette picked it and held it to her face, inhaling deeply. "Oh, Christine," she breathed, "you smell so lovely now, like flowers." The doll was still stained, but Cosette didn't mind that, for the stains on Christine were old and familiar.

* * *

Valjean wasn't surprised the first night that Cosette woke up crying. He had half-expected her to have nightmares. She cried herself awake, and when he reached her bedside, she was sitting up among the blankets, still sobbing and clutching Christine to her chest.

"My poor girl," Valjean murmured, sitting down beside her and wiping her face with his handkerchief. "You're all right, Cosette. Papa's right here. Did you have a bad dream, love?"

"No," she answered, and that _did_ surprise him. "Christine did. She had a t-terrible scary dream, Papa." She cradled the doll close, as more tears slipped down her cheeks. "You're all right, Christine, d-don't cry."

Valjean just looked at her for a moment, slightly concerned that Cosette was projecting her own emotions onto her doll so deeply. But then, Cosette had endured things that no child should have to; perhaps transferring to her doll was her way of coping. He said gently, "Come, Cosette, why don't you and Christine sleep with me for tonight?" He scooped the girl up out of bed – doll, blanket, and all – and carried her across the room.

That was the first night that Cosette had a nightmare, but it wasn't the last. Every time that she woke up crying, Valjean went to her bed, wiped her tears, and held her until she stopped shaking. If she didn't fall asleep in his arms, then he carried her across the room and laid her down in his own bed. She always brought Christine with her to her papa's bed, for she couldn't fall asleep without her doll. This happened regularly, night after night, until at last, Cosette's memories of her life before Valjean began to fade.

* * *

Years passed. As Cosette grew up, Valjean moved them from the boarding house to the convent to a house on Rue de l'Ouest, then finally, to one on Rue Plumet. By then, Cosette was nearly grown-up, but still, whenever they moved, she made sure to take her two dolls with her. She didn't sleep with them anymore, but she kept them on a shelf in her room, always handled them gently, and still called them by their names. Cosette sometimes thought that perhaps this was silly behavior from a young lady her age, but she couldn't help it, for habits ran strong in her.

Habits were strong too in an old man who lived in fear of being found. Cosette didn't know that her father patrolled their house on Rue Plumet almost every night. Anywhere between midnight and dawn, Valjean woke up and got out of his bed, and every night, he went first to Cosette's room, to make sure that she was sleeping soundly. From her room, he would patrol through the entire house, looking out the windows to make sure that nothing was amiss in the garden, checking that all the doors were locked and every room was safe and secure. Then he'd look in on Cosette one last time and go back to bed.

One stormy night, as he walking down the hall to Cosette's room, he heard a low, murmuring sound beneath the drizzle of the rain. He soon recognized Cosette's voice... but what was she doing up at this hour? And who on earth could she be talking to? Was she talking in her sleep? But Cosette had never done that before. She must've had another nightmare. They were far less common now than they had been when Cosette was a little girl, but she still sometimes woke up crying. And Valjean still sat on her bed and held her until she could sleep again. He secretly wished that he could still carry her to his own room... but Cosette was a young lady now, and sharing a bed with her father would be improper. He walked quicker down the hall, and as he neared Cosette's door, he could make out her words.

"...and you used to smell bad, I think... no, I _know_ you did, because I remember Papa putting you in something that made you smell better. But I can't remember what..."

"Cosette?" Valjean asked loudly, pushing open her door.

Cosette abruptly fell silent and looked over at him – almost guiltily, as if she had been caught doing something that she wasn't supposed to. She was awake and sitting at her desk. She had taken Christine and Catherine down from the shelf and sat them side-by-side on the desk in front of her, like she used to when she held tea parties. She didn't answer Valjean, but only looked back down at her dolls, and her gaze moved slowly back and forth from Christine to Catherine, as if she were trying to reconcile something inside her mind. The look on her face was so pensive, so unlike her usual cheerful expression, that Valjean felt concerned.

"Cosette, what are you doing up?" he asked, crossing the room to her desk. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Cosette didn't look up from her dolls. "No," she answered immediately, "it wasn't a dream, Papa."

But Valjean didn't understand what she meant by this. "This storm must've woken you, then," he said. "It'll be over by morning. Come back to bed, child." He took her arm, and she didn't resist as he gently pulled her up from her chair and led her back to her bed. But as she climbed in, she sighed, and the sound was so somber that Valjean asked again, "Cosette, what's wrong?" He sat down on the edge of her bed and pressed the back of his hand against her forehead.

"You don't feel feverish..." His hand shifted to her cheek, running his thumb along her cheekbone. "Are you sure you didn't have a bad dream, sweetheart?"

Cosette was still sitting up in bed, and without meaning to, she leaned into her father's touch. This was all so familiar to her – the low, dim lamplight, the soft shuffle of blankets, the feeling of drowsiness, her father holding her and speaking softly to her. He had done this with her so often, when she was a little girl and had nightmares all the time. He had done it so much that sometimes, it seemed to Cosette that he had always done it. But he hadn't. There had been a time... _before_, a time when she was crying in the darkness, hungry and scared, but there was no soft lamplight, no blankets, and worst of all, no papa to comfort her. There had been no one who cared, or even noticed – except Christine. Christine had been there with her, in that dark, terrible before-place. It was before Papa, but she'd still had her doll. Cosette remembered that. She clung to that.

"Cosette, tell me what's wrong," her father prompted, his hand still on her cheek. He looked so concerned that Cosette suddenly felt guilty for worrying him. She didn't want him to worry.

She hesitated, then took a deep breath and said, "I just... I can't sleep. Will you read to me, Papa?"

Her father stared at her for a moment, his brow furrowed; he didn't seem convinced that there wasn't something more troubling her, but he only said, "All right, child, lie down and I'll read to you," and he picked up the Bible from her nightstand.

By the time he stopped reading, her eyes had slipped close and her breathing slowed. She was hovering very close to sleep, but still just awake enough to feel when her father tucked her blankets closer around her, brushed her hair back, and kissed her cheek. She heard him moving about in her room, and then she felt a soft, familiar nudge on her arm. After he closed her door and his footsteps faded away, Cosette cracked one eye open. Her father had gone to her desk and put her fine, store-bought doll back on the shelf, and then he'd taken her handmade rag-doll, brought it to her bed, and tucked it beneath her arm - even though she hadn't slept with Christine since she was a little girl. She wondered why he had done it, but she fell asleep before an answer could come to her.

* * *

Valjean went back to his own room, but he didn't go back to bed right away. Instead, he took Bishop Myriel's old silver candlesticks down from the shelf where he kept them, set them on his desk, and lit the candles. He pulled out his chair, sat down, and watched the flames flickering for a long time. He wondered... how much of her old life could Cosette remember? He thought that she had forgotten those years completely, but perhaps he was wrong. He was curious, but he knew that he could never bring himself to ask her.

He had never told Cosette - he never _could_ tell Cosette - but he understood why she still had her dolls. He understood that sometimes a simple thing, like a doll or a candlestick, was much more just another possession. Sometimes, it was a reminder of the person you used to be, and of how far you had come. He could never tell Cosette, but... sometimes, Valjean wished that he could. He wished that he could tell her how well he understood.

**FIN**


End file.
